A man sits behind a bar,
strumming his fingers;
in order.
Thinking of the past,
strumming his fingers;
he orders.
One beer goes down,
he prays for his sins;
and orders.
Two beers now empty,
he stands up straight;
and thinks.
His money on the table,
his pains concealed;
he stumbles.
Into the darkness,
un-armed and alone;
he walks.
Judgement then comes,
a gun to his head
he screams.
Tied up and taken,
beaten not broken;
he dies.
His name was Omar.
The papers call him
number 121.
By Luke(y) Skinner 16/5/06 edited 22/5/06